


You still haunt me...

by fate_incomplete



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-11 11:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fate_incomplete/pseuds/fate_incomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's body was going through the motions, dragging his barely functioning thoughts with it, lost in his grief. He didn't notice at first, he almost missed his miracle...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You still haunt me...

John hadn't been back to Baker Street in weeks, it was filled with too many reminders he couldn't face. Instead he was trapped in an empty hotel room, his body going through the motions, dragging his barely functioning thoughts with it.

He didn't notice at first, lost in his grief, barely noticing if it was night or day. Stumbling home after too many drinks alone, he almost tripped over a paper left outside his door. Cursing, he kicked it aside, forgetting about it before he even had the door open.

He went to therapy, phoned Mrs Hudson to let her know he was ok, even though he wasn't. Both conversations short, abrupt even, words too hard to string together in any meaningful way. Mrs Hudson had asked when he would be coming home, he had said he didn't know. The surgery had called to ask when he would be coming back to work, he said he didn't know.

The following Saturday, he came home to another paper propped against the door. He picked it up and tossed it on the table with his keys. Three days later he threw it in the bin. It had been a month, yet it was still an effort to make his limbs work, he had no energy or interest left to read about whatever was happening out there in the world.

Thursday, anger took over, briefly shuffling aside the emptiness and filling him with rage he couldn't control. Papers showered down around him as he flung the table across the room. The chair followed, crashing into the wall, splintering, echoing everything that was breaking inside of him.

He slumped to the floor to the chorus of calls for quiet from the adjoining room, head slumping into his hands as the tears finally came. They had been building for over a month, held in check by sheer stoic will, coming now in shuddering, half stifled sobs, as he hated Sherlock for ever coming into his life, yet hating him even more for leaving it.

Every stubborn, infuriating mannerism, all the times he had wanted to hit him, all the laughter they had shared. He had been so alone, and now was alone again.

Saturday brought another paper. He picked it up and put it on the hastily mended table.

Sunday morning Mycroft called. John hung up before he could get five words out. Three texts from the wrong Holmes followed. Those too were ignored.

More therapy, another call to Mrs Hudson.

Saturday. John came home to a darkened room, didn't bother with the light, just sat on the bed in the dark. He heard a thud at the door, wasn't surprised when he opened it to see the paper lying there.

"You know I'm not actually paying for these?" John said to the empty hallway.

He went back inside, was about to toss it aside again, when a piece of paper slipped from it to settle on the floor.

John stared at it, a single typed line.

> _Pay attention. Page 23._

John hastily flicked through to the specified page, eyes scanning, squinting in the darkness with just the dim light from the small window illuminating the text. He almost missed it, it was so obscure. Time spent with Sherlock had sharpened his observations though.

It was hidden amongst the vacant flat listings, just three insignificant lines.

> _Seeking flatmate._  
>  _Doctor preferred._  
>  _Deductions a given._

There were no contact details, just those three lines. Totally random, could be anything.

He flicked on the bedside lamp and read further, wondering if he was delusional, if his belief in his friend went beyond the absurd.

Two adds down...

> _I nner city flat_  
>  _A vailable to rent now_  
>  _M ust have references_  
>  _A nimals allowed_  
>  _L ong term lease_  
>  _I n prime spot_  
>  _V acated recently_  
>  _E nquiries welcome_

John stared at it for five minutes. Heart racing, brow crinkled. He tossed the paper aside, running hands through his hair as he circled the room. On the third turn he picked it back up again, hands shaking, wondering if he was seeing things that weren't really there in some desperate hope that bordered on stupidity.

He read the entire page six times, but nothing else jumped out at him, just those two ads.

Body numb, John sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the text, until he finally fell asleep, paper clutched in his hand, and the words, _I am alive_ , running through his thoughts.

Monday morning he faxed an ad to the paper from the copy place three blocks over.

> _This better b u..._  
>  _U pmarket flat in London_  
>  _S ublet available_  
>  _O lder applicants preferred_  
>  _B asement storage accessible_

John bought every paper that week, though it was Saturday's paper again that had the reply, with another two ads.

> _Of course, it's just for you..._  
>  _S unny kitchen_  
>  _O ld world charm_  
>  _R easonable rent_  
>  _R ight on the river_  
>  _Y ou had to see it_

Three ads down...

> _You have to see the fall in rent to believe it._  
>  _If you don't, it'll kill you_  
>  _That you missed out on this flat._  
>  _No other way to stop it,_  
>  _Than to jump on this bargain now._  
>  _Discretion advised, if others see it,_  
>  _It won't be on the market long._

John ran his hands over the page, smoothing out the crinkles. Not entirely sure he got the message, not entirely sure it was real. Though the wording was entirely too strange to be anything else.

John sat in the chair, militarily straight backed. He didn't know whether he wanted to throw something or laugh. He eventually settled on the thought that if, when, he saw Sherlock, he would definitely punch him in that arrogant, absurd face, though he had no idea when that would be. Even amongst the storm of emotion, he knew that Sherlock must have a reason for staying away, or at least he bloody well better.

A laugh tumbled past his lips, bordering on the hysterical from sheer relief.

_Nobody could be that clever...you could_

_Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me._  
 _Don't be... dead. Would you do that,_   _just for me?_

John pulled out some paper and started to word a reply, fingers tapping on the table top with more energy than he had felt in a month. It wasn't enough, never could be, yet strangely it would do. He had his miracle. Their friendship had never been normal, why should it start now...

Sunday morning, John moved back into Baker Street....alone, but no longer empty.


End file.
